


Semester Assignment

by Filigranka



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bestiality, Bunch of OCs - Freeform, For Science!, Human Incubator, M/M, Tentacles, detached narrator, fantasy xenophobia, human container, male turned into breeder, mess&dirt, not watersport but tangential themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 12:21:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12232722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: Tuvelin aep Caern hated field research. Especially such a boring ones (but a stipend was so high!).





	Semester Assignment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



Tuvelin aep Caern, young researcher  in the biology faculty of the Royal Academy of Tir na Lia, did something very, very improper and absolutely unforgivable. He yawned.

Older colleagues looked at him with either disdain or condescending fondness. Tuvelin immediately felt grateful for his genetic adaptations, making blushing impossible for him. It was rather helpful in his chosen field of research, too.

He mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ and  sighed mentally. His career just took a blow—the others would certainly remark about his unprofessional behaviour in their top secret inner-department reports—but it  _ was so boring _ ! Yes, he understood the importance of getting Xanthauris live semen in their laboratory. Yes, he knew it could potentially help develop a medicine or a weapon, both things serving the kingdom. Yes, he knew it was an honour to be included in such an innovative, important project before even getting the Aen Saevherne title, especially since he was one of the Aen Seidhe, immigrants, not noble Aen Elle. Yes, it would look splendid in his resume, not to mention it would bring him tons of degree-points. But all these “yes-es” aside, it was so bloede boring!

They just sat near the range, hidden in the forest and additionally camouflaged by magic, observing their bait and container wriggling in its—his; Dh’oine were sexually dimorphic creatures, just like Aen Elle, which, really, was a mockery of the caerme, come to think of it—in his bonds, both magical and physical in their nature, his penis erect and ready, dripping with precome. There were narcotics in his veins, making him almost mad with lust and need of release, and there was magic in his testicles, making ejaculation impossible.

It’d taken about two hours already, and Tuvelin’s colleagues said it could even take more than half a day. Half a day spent sitting in the bushes, like some lowly animal or forced into forest freedom fighters!

‘That’s fieldwork for you.’ The voice in his mind sounded amused and Tuvelin, despite all his genetic advantages, almost blushed. How could he forget that their supervisior, Fashear aep Cyryl, was a master in mind-reading?

‘Easily. I take a great deal of effort in making sure others forget about that. But now, focus. You’re the youngest one—you will be the one filling out the official papers. And did I need to remind you writing the field observations journal  is your year assignment?’

Indeed it was. Tuvelin sighed and turned his focus to the Dh’oine, composing the note in his memory. First, an explanation of their choice—a Dh’oine was an unusual one, because while their reproduction skills were unmatchable, they were rather weak, feeble creatures; a strong, noble beast like Xanthauris would normally break them in half in a minute, and the Academy needed their container alive, for the sake of the good preservation of the Xanthauris’ fluids and eggs. But this one wasn’t a normal Dh’oine. It was one of their “witchers”, a Dh’oine enhanced by experiments and magic—and while Dh’oine level of genetic manipulation left much to be desired, they had done this job well enough. Witchers were generally much more endurable than your average Dh’oine. And this one, as far as Tuvelin knew, was the exceptional case even among his kind. The previous endurance tests, done in the safe environment of the laboratory, proved the subject could stand the size of the Xanthauris’ testicles and the strength of its grip and friction moves.

They hadn’t shaved the bait’s long, white hair—another possible controversial move he would have to explain. The hair was great for holding aphrodisiacs and pheromones in them, helpful in luring the beast. The Dh’oine’s fluids served the same function, so the team had decided to neither wash the bait, nor allowing it the access to a place to take care of its physical needs in its preferred, non-dirtying manner.

That had proven itself a problem just a few hours ago, when they’d been tying the Dh’oine in place. Tuvelin, despite the protective magic, could barely bear the smell—he really felt sorry for the Dh’oine; the witchers’ senses, according to the file, had been enhanced, too, and the elf wouldn’t even want to imagine how terribly this poor thing was stinking in its own nostrils. 

The charms had helped them clean themselves, later, when they were starting their little “camp”. Colleagues’d assured Tuvelin that the extraction of the bait-turned-container could and would be done by magic. And there wouldn’t be any reasons to not magically wash it, then, thanks caerme. Although Tuvelin had the sinking feeling he would be the one “honoured” by this task. He was the youngest one, the one without the title, after all.

He would probably also be tasked with shaving the Dh’oine when their mission was finished. All the substances put into his hair, combined with the weeks of not washing, had made it dirty, greasy and tangled. There was no hope of brushing it clean—and, besides, why would they make such an effort? Hair would always grow back, after all. With magic, they could even make the process quicker, if they ever needed to.

He glanced at the Dh’oine, trying to come with other observations he could stuffed his report with. He wanted to be seen as precise and thorough—and he most definitely wanted to get a good grade. His stipend was at stake here, and the material situation of most Aen Seidhe in this new, safe world was far from perfect.

There were some insects, walking on the bait’s back and neck, climbing up his thighs and arse, widely spread by magic. One of them even flew and sit on the Dh’oine’s cock, probably interested in the smell of pre-come and few-days-old urine. The presence of the insects, Tuvelin started to compose in his head, could probably explain the Dh’oine’s uneasiness, all that wriggling and wild, obviously uncomfortable jerking, despite the aphrodisiacs and lust narcotics they had given him. Of course, the pressure of an unreleased erection might play a part in it as well, because Dh’oine, and witchers especially, were lustful creatures, unable to control their primitive sexual instincts.

They, Aen Elle and Aen Seidhe, weren’t the barbarians, teasing lower creatures in vain. The bait needed to be conscious, for the Xantharuis, being a half-intelligent creature, wouldn’t take an interest in it otherwise, but neither it, nor they, wanted to make the carrier of its eggs suffer unnecessarily. Xanthaurises never mated with the unwilling—hence all that hassle with aphrodisiacs and making sure the bait smelled of lust, and, more importantly, craved the ejaculation so much it would gladly take even the beast’s monstrous organ. Organs, to be precise (and he needed to be precise, if he wanted this bonus to the stipend!), because Xanthauris testicles included both some penis-like organs, and a few tentacles, the second one coming first and filling the mate’s hole with the their lightly acid fluids, ensuring the proper environment for the growth of the eggs.

Said fluids were very interesting from a scientific point of view, too. The scienticists would need to extract them along with the eggs and then put them in some other, more suitable creature. Dh’oine, even the of the witcher type, couldn’t stand the pH of Xanthaurises long—it was a little too acid and too toxic for them. Still, a few hours or even a day or two as an incubator shouldn’t do him much damage, so Tuvelin’s department would have plenty of time to do the adjustment the pre-prepared creatures and artificial wombs, grown from a single cell.

And then Tuvelin’s road to his academic career would open wide. Of course, if the Xanthauris would be kind enough to show today—or during this wave of field research, at all.

The elf sighed, this time in a carefully hidden corner of his mind. For all the teasing about the “sex tapes” mission of his, done by his colleagues, it was such a boring, boring, boring job!


End file.
